(enlace) Fired up by flamenco's heat

DANCE REVIEW


In flamenco, all the dancer wants is quiet: to exorcise his pain and passion so he can rest. The drama lies in his delaying that gratification until the audience is dying for it, too - driven crazy by the brooding pauses and percussive stutters that punctuate the progress toward release. The dancer never does explode in libidinous victory, though. His effort to free himself undoes him. He is ravaged in the end. Freud would have loved it.

The renowned Noche Flamenca, which has had regular New York seasons since its debut in 1993, distinguishes itself to the point of parody as flamenco puro. The program identifies the birthplaces of the whole cast - they're straight outta Spain - except the director, Martin Santangelo (maybe because he was born in New York). The young singer Miguel Picuo says he "learned how to sing before I learned how to walk." The dancers wear their share of gypsy polka dots.

(leer +) [vía new york newsday]